


Prodigal Son

by JAMoczo



Series: Prodigal Son [1]
Category: Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-29
Updated: 2013-07-29
Packaged: 2017-12-21 19:17:01
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,449
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/903883
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JAMoczo/pseuds/JAMoczo
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>January 1945; Aziraphale has a crisis of faith.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Prodigal Son

The angel clearly needs a bath, a nap, and a large meal. 

 Crowley easily carries Aziraphale into his abandoned flat, (marveling at how _light_ the angel is, almost as if he isn’t even there) not stopping until they reach the bathroom.  Yes, first things first, the bath.  He is covered in grime and worse things and wearing only rags; Crowley makes up his mind that Aziraphale is going to get a bath, then sleep for a few days, and then Crowley is going to force-feed him enough roast duck, potatoes au gratin and crème brulee to get some actual meat back on those bones.  Crowley is thin, but right now Aziraphale is making him feel obese.

Crowley places the still-in-shock angel down onto the toilet while he works on filling up the tub.  The silence is getting to him; Aziraphale hasn’t even indicated he’s noticed what’s happened, that he’s no longer a prisoner.  Instead, he’s staring at his hands, his eyes glassy and bright.  Crowley averts his gaze and watches the water fill the tub.  _And to think_ , he thinks, _I hated being part of the Soviet Army.  What happened to you, Aziraphale?  How on this forsaken earth did you get caught?  Why didn’t you just leave, or…_

Even more frightening to Crowley than the physical silence is the mental one.  A tentative touch of minds yields _nothing_ – Aziraphale’s entire consciousness seems to be shattered into pieces.  

            The water is done now.  Crowley turns it off and starts removing the pieces of cloth than can barely be called rags from Aziraphale’s un-protesting form.  Gathering him back up, Crowley quickly moves the now-naked angel into the bathtub.  While he reaches for the shampoo to start cleaning the matted curly blonde hair, Aziraphale sinks down into the water, too exhausted to keep himself sitting up. 

            Crowley doesn’t even sigh, doesn’t even acknowledge how distinctly un-demonic this is as he strips himself down, climbing into the tub and hoisting the angel back up.  Pouring a generous amount of vanilla-scented shampoo into his hands, the most expensive that money can buy but doesn’t have to in this situation, he starts to work it into the tangled locks, making sure to give the scalp a deep massage.  If there’s one thing that Crowley has learned from nearly six thousand years’ worth of association it’s that Aziraphale is _sensitive_ , a fact learned from the old days when they would fight, and from later when they would touch accidentally, or Crowley would groom Aziraphale’s wings, or help him home after a night of drinking.  It’s a fact that more than once has had Crowley musing just exactly _how_ sensitive – 

            _All right, that’s enough_.  He wills himself to ignore how he’s naked in a bathtub with someone he’s entertained lustful ideation –

            _I just said that’s enough!_

            He forces himself to focus again on Aziraphale’s hair.  The angel’s eyes have drifted shut under Crowley’s ministrations.

            He materializes a large pitcher of warm water and pours it over Aziraphale’s head.  It needs another round.  Crowley leans forward so that they’re practically skin to skin and starts another round of deep shampooing.  Aziraphale absently groans and Crowley bites his lower lip, reminding himself that he is more than his demonic urging.  It seems odd to him to admit that he is more than what he is, but then again, he’s been on this planet with this angel for nearly six thousand years; odd thoughts are commonplace.

             Once the hair is clear he works in a conditioning treatment and materializes a washcloth and some soap, beginning to scrub off the grime that seems to have melted into Aziraphale’s skin.  The touch isn’t tender at all – he really has to rub the flesh raw in order to get it back to being its pasty, pale self, the way it was before...

            “What the blazes happened to you,” Crowley murmurs, breaking the silence.  Aziraphale doesn’t respond, oblivious to the rubbing.  From all appearances, he’s passed out.  

            The water in the tub ends up being brown after they’re done in it, but Crowley doesn’t notice that until he comes back next week and has to use a miracle to clean it out.  For now, he lifts the unconscious angel out of the tub, dries him with a thought and puts him into bed – being sure to change the silk sheets from black to blue, just for him.  

 

* * *

 

            Aziraphale sleeps for a week, occasionally stirring and making pained sounds, like he’s desperately asking for help but no one is there who can do anything.  But Crowley _is_ there, and during those times there’s not much he can do but crawl into bed and hold him, making soothing noises even though he knows they don’t truly help.  And after Aziraphale calms down, he has to force himself to leave.  Sometimes he doesn’t.

            He’s not sure why he’s being so damn sympathetic.  Yes, he’s known Aziraphale for almost six thousand years, but they’ve never been close enough for them to cuddle nude…  Well, apparently they were and just never realized it.  But while Crowley can’t admit to himself why he feels helpless and pained every time Aziraphale cries out in his sleep, at least he can console himself by acknowledging he wouldn’t be this way for anyone else.  It’s not much of a consolation.

 

* * *

 

          On the seventh day Aziraphale wakes up, exiting Crowley’s bedroom clad in the blue silk robe that the demon had materialized for him in anticipation for his waking up eventually.  The blue emphasizes his eyes, which has the result of showing just how tired and agonized the angel still looks.  

            “Good morning, my dear,” he says cheerfully enough, “Might I have some tea, please?”

            Crowley isn’t put off by the act.  He’s known Aziraphale long enough and through enough horrors – the destruction of Sodom, the Crucifixion, the annihilation of Pompeii, the Black Plague, the Crusades and the Inquisition – to know that the angel’s defense mechanism is to shut down and pretend everything is fine (Crowley’s is to get piss drunk – he much prefers his own.)  He knows it’s going to take time to get things back to the way they were.

            “Sure.”

            He just doesn’t anticipate _how much_ time.

* * *

Aziraphale doesn’t leave Crowley’s flat for five years, and to both of their surprises Crowley never calls him on this.  From Crowley’s estimation it’s a lot like having a roommate who always cleans up after himself and doesn’t cost a single cent for upkeep, so getting him to leave would be more bother than it’s worth.  

Aziraphale never mentions his long-abandoned bookshop, content to read the newspaper every day and watch television on Crowley’s state-of-the-art small black and white set.  He also takes to writing, dabbling in adventure novels, romance, mystery and horror.  He has Crowley buy him some cookbooks and he begins teaching himself, to mixed results.  One result is that he gains back enough weight so that he and Crowley are roughly the same size; not back to his original figure, but no longer looking as if he was Death’s long lost curly-haired brother with skin.  He even shares Crowley’s clothes, not willing to leave the flat to buy his own and still not compromising his insistence that some things shouldn’t be miracled. The black manages to make him look _paler_ , which Crowley isn’t sure is possible.  Crowley starts wearing less black.

Crowley buys Aziraphale houseplants, because repressing depressed angel or no he does _not_ want anything that can defecate on his perfect white rug.  Predictably, Aziraphale’s angelic nurturing instincts lead to houseplants so luscious that any neighbor who set foot in the flat would be jealous, except that none ever do.  During the second year, the teenage girl who lives downstairs came up to try to sell something and Aziraphale ended up having a panic attack and going mute for three weeks.  After that, no one comes.

Eventually Crowley cajoles Aziraphale into trying sleep, although in the process he realizes he forgot that he only has one bed.  Aziraphale enjoys the practice – when he doesn’t have nightmares, which eventually he uses a little divine influence to fix – and the two politely squabble over who gets the bed before deciding to share it.  It’s simply easier that way, and neither can protest to the body heat of the other, even if they don’t say so.

Over the course of the years, Crowley is able to glean some details from Aziraphale regarding what has put him in this state in the first place.  From what he has been able to gather, Aziraphale went to Berlin because he felt he could do good there and ended up helping anyone he could flee.  He was imprisoned and shipped off as a political prisoner, and when he saw the situation at the camp he decided to stay in order to comfort anyone he could – a guard overlooking something here, a few less people chosen for the chambers than would have been otherwise, and since Aziraphale didn’t need to eat any food he got he could pass on to those in desperation.  Eventually, however, even he had to admit defeat, but that’s all the further he got with his story, biting his lip and saying no more on the subject.

The more time passes the less willing Crowley is to leave the flat too; eventually his own sojourns into the world outside are only at the “bequest” of Hell.  If they know he’s taken in an angel they haven’t said anything, and Crowley certainly isn’t going to press the issue.  He is suspicious that no one has tried to contact Aziraphale but certainly isn’t going to press that issue either.

* * *

 That changes when Crowley comes home – and he has come to think of the place as “home” now – after a quick errand for Hell and a trip to the bookstore to make sure it’s still there, which of course it is.  

There is a blue light in his flat, coming from the ceiling as if there were a blue spotlight there, and Aziraphale is nowhere to be seen.  It is the Heavenly equivalent of ignoring a ringing phone because you don’t want to talk to whoever is calling.  Crowley stands and stares at the light for ten minutes before begrudgingly admitting it’s not going to go anywhere.

“Er, Aziraphale?” he calls out, “There’s, ah-”

“I know,” comes the answer from the bedroom.  

            The silence that follows is rather telling.

            “Ah.”  He has no desire to walk around that stupid light forever, so he walks up to it and steps inside.  “What do you want?” he demands.

            “Are you always this slow at answering?” the voice demands.  It’s impossible to tell who’s trying to contact him and Crowley doesn’t really care anyway.

            “Answer the question or I’m leaving again and you can find out just how long I’m willing to not answer you.”

            There is a sigh.  “Have you seen Aziraphale anywhere?  We haven’t heard from him in quite a while, and he’s usually punctual with his reports.”

            “Why would I know where he is?”  Crowley’s not sure if they can see him, but just in case he raises his eyebrow.

            “Because you’re his Enemy,” the voice answers reasonably, although from barely-hidden tenseness it clearly wants to smite him, “Because you two have been fighting for thousands of years, and so you should know where he is.”

            “Nope.  He left England awhile ago, didn’t say where he was going.  We are, after all, _Enemies_.  If I see him I’ll tell him to call.  Now get out of my living room.”

            With a parting shot calling him “awfully rude, even for a damned hell fiend,” the light leaves.

            Crowley sighs, taking off his sunglasses to rub his eyes.  He’s just come face to face with the indisputable proof that Aziraphale is simply not recovering this time like he has in the past.

            All right, so he’s avoiding Heaven.  There is no proper analogy for such a thing; it’s absolutely unthinkable that an angel would be avoiding the peace, tranquility, the sense of belonging that only Heaven can give him.  Crowley briefly wonders if Aziraphale Fell without telling anyone, so he reaches out his demonic sixth sense and feels for Aziraphale’s divinity – it’s there, but so faint it’s almost negligible.  It’s not demonic, it’s not human, it’s a faded, stained and torn version of the angelic aura he’s always had.  It’s not as if God has forsaken him…

            It’s as if he’s forsaken God.

            Crowley is ashamed he doesn’t feel pleasure from this idea, that he’s living with an angel who hasn’t Fallen only because God hasn’t given up on him yet for some reason.  If it were any other angel, Crowley would be musing on how hard he’d have to push to get him over the ledge and what kind of frame he should buy for the commendation he’d get to match the woodwork in the corner office he’d also get.  Instead, Crowley begins to ponder how to get Aziraphale back in touch with his Creator; and, he has to admit, how to get Aziraphale back in the process.    

            He’ll just tell himself it’s to make Aziraphale uncomfortable.

* * *

            The first step is getting him out of the flat.

            “I’m just saying,” he says, “that you seemed to like the Ritz, and it _is_ still open…”

            All of the blood has rushed from Aziraphale’s face.  “If you’re hungry, I can cook-”

            “I think someone should cook for _us_ ,” Crowley interrupts, the predator in him seeing the very apparent prey in Aziraphale.   He’s leaning forward, trying to keep the smirk off his face.  “Bring us more wine than we can drink… I mean, you haven’t gotten completely _smashed_ in awhile, have you?  I’ll even let you wear one of my nicer suits.”

            But five years’ worth of agoraphobia are not so easily smoothed over.  “I don’t think so, dear,” the angel says tentatively, looking everywhere but Crowley.  “I’m not… I’m not…”  He buries his fingers in his long curly hair, breathing deeply.  “Feeling well.  You can go without me, of course.”

            “Not going without you.  No point to it.  Come on, just to the Ritz, we’ll have dinner, and come back.  Once you get some alcohol in you you’ll feel better.”  

            Aziraphale is not budging.  “No thank you.”

            Crowley expects it.  He reaches out with his demonic aura, gently touching Aziraphale, lightly prodding, cajoling.  This is against Rule #1 of the Arrangement.  Aziraphale’s essence is so weak he doesn’t even seem to notice.  He’s starting to cave.

            “You can even have my dessert.”  

            Aziraphale’s entire body is trembling.  Crowley is intoxicated by the fear radiating off him in waves.  

            He shakes his head, looking completely lost.  “Crowley, please, I just can’t…”

            “Who says you can’t?  You haven’t left this flat in _years_ you realize.  A night on the town will do you good.”  The blue eyes widen and he hastily amends, “A very _quick_ night, I mean, _just_ to the Ritz and back.  Very little town.”  He reaches out with another persuasive push of his aura.  Aziraphale is clearly looking for somewhere to hide but is realizing there is nowhere.  “You get a choice.  Go out with me or tell me why you won’t.”

* * *

            The waiter is clearly put off by the young-looking gentleman in the stylish blue suit who looks as if everyone around him is trying to kill him.  As the waiter stammers out the specials and Aziraphale’s eyes don’t stop glancing around, Crowley smoothly steps in and orders for them both, making sure to request another bottle of wine.  At the thankful glance from Aziraphale, Crowley pointedly refills the angel’s glass with the last of this bottle.

            “This was a bad idea.”

            “Nonsense.  Drink up.  You just need to remember that you can damn anyone here with just a thought; you’re _safe_ , angel.”

            Aziraphale takes a sip of wine but shakes his head.

            “Well, if you’re too nice, then you have me,” and Crowley lowers his sunglasses to make eye contact, “And _I_ am _not_ too nice.”

            “It’s not… it’s just…” Aziraphale finishes the wine glass.  “I simply don’t know anymore, Crowley. I didn’t even hear you – what did you order for me?”

            “What don’t you know?”

            “What you ordered for me.”

            “No, before that.”

            Both of Aziraphale’s hands had been damaged in the camps, coming out coarse, blistered and with broken, dirty nails, the fingers being bent unnaturally.  Since then, Aziraphale has given them more care than they had ever received, giving himself the occasional manicure and always lotioning them; with enough discipline, the fingers extend straight again.  They are trembling now, and Crowley reaches out to take one in his own, less soft hand.  It tightens in response.

            “I’m not sure… _why_.”

            “Why you’re scared,” Crowley supplies.

            “I see… I see people, and I think…  I _failed_ them.”

            Crowley doesn’t need to ask who.  Neither notices the waiter returning with the new bottle.

            “So many people,” Aziraphale continues, his eyes glazed over as he looks at the past, “So many people, for no reason, and there was nothing I…  _Nothing_ I…”

            There is something significant here, something that makes this experience different for the angel than any other, but he isn’t sure what, so he presses, “You did all you could, angel.”

            “Not anymore, apparently,” he whispers.

            Crowley’s unnecessary heart stops beating.  “Aziraphale?  What are you saying?”

            The trembling fingers in his grasp squeeze hard enough to pop Crowley’s out of place; he ignores them.  

            “I was there, and I tried, but I couldn’t _feel_ Him, I couldn’t…  He wasn’t _there_ …”

Oh no.

The angel mouths forlornly, “ _Eloi, Eloi, lema sabachthani?”_

The patrons of the Ritz that evening are filled with an inexplicable depression, needing to ascertain that they _mean_ something.  They each call a loved one, seeking and providing comfort, strengthening bonds.

* * *

            Aziraphale is drunk with sanctuary, self-disclosure and wine when they make it back to their flat.  

            Crowley is roughly pressed against the wall, an insistent Aziraphale kissing him, needing.  At first it is a little awkward, neither being truly used to this and their respective eyewear colliding, but it only takes a moment or two for them to catch their stride.  Crowley’s hands remove Aziraphale’s suit jacket and slide up and down his back as his tongue works its way into his mouth – he tastes of wine and smells of clouds and lavender (Aziraphale hasn’t been back to his shop in years, so he smells strictly angelic) - and Aziraphale moans softly, leaning backward.  This breaks the kiss, but Aziraphale smiles and takes Crowley’s hand, leading him to the bed.  Crowley, caught off guard as he is, their platonic relationship clearly changing in front of him, can’t help but smile too.

            The kiss starts again and makes it through the main room to the bedroom, where Aziraphale pushes Crowley onto the bed, not breaking off the kiss.  And it is a _good_ kiss.  The angel is lying on top of the demon, all of them on the bed except for their feet.  Once Aziraphale starts trying to get Crowley’s shirt off, Crowley takes the hint and slides his hands up the back of Aziraphale’s breaking the kiss just long enough to get it off.  Aziraphale’s skin is miraculously, inhumanely soft under Crowley’s fingertips.  The angel’s perfect hands are traveling over Crowley’s shirt, desperately trying to get it off.

            When the kiss is broken again to get Crowley’s shirt off, he uses the lull in timing to flip Aziraphale onto his back.  He starts kissing the angel down his chest while touching him anywhere he can, licking both nipples before continuing down, amused to see he has a belly button.  It just seems silly, really.  

            Aziraphale’s eyes are too wide for the rest of his face, making him look young.  “I, er, you don’t have to-”

            “Yes I do,” Crowley replies, making eye contact as he makes the suit’s trousers and what’s underneath them disappear.  He takes Aziraphale in his hand and strokes him slowly, and the angel’s eyes flutter shut as he focuses on the sensations.  “That’sssss it,” Crowley whispers, not even noticing that he’s started to hiss, “Jusssst relax and enjoy.  You need thisssss, angel.”

            While he continues the smooth, regular stroking, he bends down and begins licking the very tip, trying to memorize the taste and texture.  Aziraphale whimpers, biting his lower lip as one hand clenches the sheet beneath him and the other comes up to tangle in Crowley’s thick black hair.  Not content with what little he’s gotten to touch, both of Crowley’s hands begin roaming over Aziraphale’s body, tracing muscles and smoothing skin, while Crowley lowers his mouth further, suckling gently.  A large portion of his mind simply can’t believe that he’s doing this to _Aziraphale_ , but it also happens to be that that portion is also the happiest part.

            Aziraphale makes an amusing yet delicious squeaking noise as his hips buck upward involuntarily, but it’s not enough for Crowley, who comes back up and whispers, “Feelssssss good?”  His hands are still roaming over the angel’s body.

            He nods.

            “Then tell me, angel.  You have to let me know, okay?”

            “O… okay…”

            Crowley gently licks the tip again.  “Tell me what you like, what you don’t like, what you want me to do to you… Everything.”  He focuses more specifically on the angel’s inner thighs with his hands, simultaneously arousing and soothing.  Now that he has Aziraphale’s undivided attention, he again begins doing what his lover – _oh wow –_ wants from him the most right now.

            As Crowley continues his ministrations, Aziraphale’s breath becomes ragged and his fingers clench even tighter.  It hurts Crowley’s head a little bit but he doesn’t care.  “Like this…  Oh, oh _my_ , Crowley, I… oh…”  The angel’s body arches backwards, pressing his hips against Crowley’s mouth, “So good… Please, please, please…  Keep… _oh_ … _Crowley_ …”

            The demon moans deep in his throat, and the vibrations and the sound of his lover’s mutual pleasure push Aziraphale into his first taste of physical ecstasy.  Crowley can’t imagine how it’s taken him nearly six thousand years to get this far.  It seems almost unfair.  He vows to make up for lost time.

            Aziraphale is trembling in the wake of his first orgasm.  The sight makes Crowley smile; he’s never seen his associate, his friend, his lover, his angel so open before.  He crawls up his body, kissing his way back up while removing his own clothes with a thought – he’s certain he’s never been so hard, so eager in his life – and settles in on top of him, kissing, licking and nipping at his neck.  His hands run over Aziraphale’s sides gently.  

            Aziraphale’s eyes finally open and he looks at Crowley with something like awe.  He’s about to say something, but his mouth looks tempting like that so Crowley can’t resist the urge to kiss him again.  In the midst of their tongues stroking each other’s, Crowley decides what he going to do next.  He rolls them onto their sides, facing each other, and runs a hand down Aziraphale’s back, down to his thigh and guides it to drape over his own hips.  He lets one finger lightly rub Aziraphale’s tailbone before sliding inside him.

            Aziraphale presses against Crowley even tighter than he had been before, which Crowley can’t believe is possible.  In the midst of their bodies stroking each other, he also can’t believe how he’s managed to find enough self-control to get to this point, or how he’s going to find enough to do what he has planned next.  

            “Wha… what are you…”

            “Shhh.”  Crowley can’t resist kissing him again – he’s awfully adorable in his lack of experience - as he works his miraculously-lubricated finger deeper inside his angel, trying to find – 

            Aziraphale cries out as Crowley’s long finger touches him in a place he never even knew existed but clearly feels so _good_.  “It’s too much,” he whimpers.

            Crowley gently kisses him again, rolling onto his back and pulling Aziraphale on top of him.  “Never too much,” he whispers, his voice coming out hoarser than before as it’s getting harder and harder to focus on his lover’s pleasure.  He slides a second finger in to stroke Aziraphale while his other hand reaches up to run his fingers through the sweat-damp curls.  Aziraphale’s fingers are clenched in the pillow on either side of Crowley’s head, his hips lightly moving, stroking his arousal against Crowley’s.

            Both of them moan into the kiss, their lips trembling from their need.  Crowley raises the hand in Aziraphale’s hair, feeling… ah, there.

            The angel keens as Crowley finds and begins stroking his halo, his entire body arching upwards, his eyes closed and a look of pure bliss on his face.  The demon in Crowley wants to take what he can from this uninhibited display of angelic energy, but he fights down the urge.  

            Crowley lifts himself up and kisses Aziraphale’s exposed neck.  “Let out your wings, angel,” he breathes, licking up the sweat along his collarbone. 

            “I… can’t… oh… Crowley… _please_ …”  The last word breaks on a whine.  He’s close again, so soon.

            The hand stroking the halo slides down, rubbing Aziraphale’s strong back around the shoulder blades, where his wings are hidden.  “Please,” he whispers back, “my angel, for me?”

            They burst from his back, dislodging a few pearly feathers in their arrival.  “Perfect,” Crowley whispers underneath his chin, “And you said you weren’t an angel.” He takes his fingers out and moves from underneath Aziraphale, coming to kneel behind him, between his spread legs.  Both his hands rub Aziraphale’s wings before he leans forward to lightly lick his back, between the shoulder blades.  

            “Crowley,” Aziraphale whispers, pushing himself up so that they are kneeling together, “I need you.  Only you.  Please?”

            Kissing the back of his neck while supporting his hips, Crowley slides inside him, unable to hold off anymore and using miracles for ease.  

            “Thank you,” Aziraphale breathes, “Oh, yes, _thank you_ …”

            It’s _insane_ , this feeling of being inside the angel like this, of being able to hear choked whimpering noises in back of his throat, of the tightness, of the heat…  Aziraphale lets out a soft cry and turns his head, and the two share a sweet kiss as Crowley gets into a stride, working his hips to get deeper.  One of Crowley’s hands rubs the angel’s stomach while the other works its way to Aziraphale’s hip; he intercepts that one, twining their fingers.

            “Let me…” Crowley begins.

            “No, not yet, just want to… focus on… _you_ , _inside me_ …” Aziraphale is smiling even as he’s panting.  His neck arches back, and Crowley kisses the side of it.

            As they move together, the demon blood in Crowley calls out, promising physical ecstasy, swearing protection, it’s a possessive bastard; and the angelic blood in Aziraphale sings back, vowing comfort, stability, unconditional…

            “Love… you…”

* * *

            They spend the next two months getting reacquainted with each other in this new role as lovers.  Crowley has never believed in soul mates before, but he is starting to.  He’s almost ashamed to admit that he didn’t realize just how close they were despite the fact that they had been nearly inseparable for the past five years, and that it took sex and Aziraphale’s confession for it to finally click in his brain that he was in love.  But it’s clicked.  

            It takes time for Aziraphale to become confident in Crowley’s affections.  He’s a very tentative lover at first, unfamiliar with the gamut of emotions he’s feeling and unused to the pleasures of the body.   But he doesn’t doubt Crowley’s sincerity and so continues to work at getting used to everything; once he gets into stride, Crowley continues to find himself marveling that he didn’t make a move for six thousand years.  Aziraphale is an angel, after all, and thus completely devoted to the idea of pleasing his partner.  And Crowley is _very_ pleased.  

But he knows things aren’t well.  His first inclination is his just _knowing_ that, although Aziraphale is clearly enjoying the new sensations that come with sex, there is still _something_ missing in his life.  He won’t leave the flat again, still has yet to even mention his shop, and whenever Crowley leaves he knows full well he’ll be coming back to an armful of amorous, insatiable angel. 

            Not that he’s complaining about that last bit.

            Crowley had been assigned a quick task by Hell and had to leave.  Easy enough.  And now here he is, sitting on an easy chair with a naked angel kneeling between his legs, welcoming him home.

            His eyes roll back into his head as he runs his fingers through silky curls.  He still can’t believe that his good deed – yes, he can try his best to convince himself that he was trying to cause Aziraphale discomfort, or debauching an angel, or whatever, but he knows he was just trying to help – has managed to turn out so very demonically satisfying.  Not only has Aziraphale not resolved any of his internal issues, but now Crowley is getting laid out of the deal.  It would be perfect if it weren’t Aziraphale.  

            And Crowley certainly can’t believe he’s thinking about _that_ at a time like _this_.  He can believe it even less when the words, “You need to talk to God,” come out of his own lips.

            He comes out of Aziraphale’s.

            “That’s… that’s a new phrase,” the angel says, giving the demon the opportunity to deny what he just said.

            Crowley sighs and buttons his pants, materializing a robe on Aziraphale.  “Damn it.  See, you only have yourself to blame for this, making me damn well _like_ you, you stupid bastard.  When was the last time you contacted Heaven?”

            Aziraphale stands up and leaves, going to the bedroom and slamming the door behind him.

            There is a quick battle of metaphysical wills, but Aziraphale is so out of touch with his heavenly attributes, like a battery that is nearly dead but refuses to give up just yet, that Crowley wins, following him in.

            Aziraphale has curled up in bed, his face buried into the down-filled pillow.  “Shut up,” Aziraphale growls, “Just, just shut up.”

            “You haven’t Fallen; trust me, I would know.”

            “I didn’t ask you.”

            “You live here, which qualifies as asking for my opinion.”

            “Maybe I should move out.”  The threat sounds hollow to both of them.

            “Maybe you should.  You have a _bookstore_ , you know.  Where your _books_ are.  Where you haven’t been in years!”

            “ _SHUT UP!”_

The scream comes from Aziraphale’s soul, wiping out any anger Crowley might have been feeling.  He takes a deep breath, deciding to be a little more tactful.   He hops onto the bed, wrapping his arms around the angel and kissing the back of his head.  “You know you haven’t been the same since you stopped talking to Him.”

            “He stopped talking to me first.”

            Crowley cannot believe he is actually doing this, and his mind copes by refusing to acknowledge just how easily he could be talking to himself.  “I know, and it’s really just plain awful.  But maybe He’ll have something to add that you have overlooked?  The guy’s omniscient, after all.”

            Aziraphale’s trembling and shaking his head.  “No, no, no, no, _no_.”

            “Hell won’t be good for you,” Crowley finally admits.

            “That’s not fair,” Aziraphale whispers, “It’s not fair that those are my only choices.”

            “I know.  But they are.”

* * *

            Crowley’s certain his comments have fallen on deaf ears, but that changes when he comes home two weeks later and can’t enter his own bedroom for the heavenly aura.  He does manage to peer in – Aziraphale is lying in a cruciform position, his human form completely abandoned in favor of his glowing, haloed, winged and sexless angel form.  Crowley is enjoying the view – even a demon can appreciate the beauty of an angel, although Crowley can also appreciate the much more fussed “beauty” of the human the angel becomes – until he notices the tears streaming down Aziraphale’s face, the look of sorrow and love on his face hurting Crowley’s heart.

            The prodigal son has finally returned home.

            Crowley closes the door and sighs.

* * *

            The next day Aziraphale smiles at Crowley as he announces he’d like to visit his bookstore again, thanking him with a kiss.  He moves out not much later.  

            Crowley keeps the houseplants as a memento.

  
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